


It Was Just A Good Cup of Coffee

by CommunionNimrod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anthea isn't fooled for one second, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommunionNimrod/pseuds/CommunionNimrod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes receives a promotion inside the British government. Greg Lestrade owns a bakery. The only reason Mycroft goes to this bakery is because of his search for a good cup of coffee. It definitely has nothing to do with the owner being charmingly handsome. No, it's just because of a good cup of coffee at a decent price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Just A Good Cup of Coffee

Never underestimate the power of a cup of coffee. This was a statement Mycroft Holmes grew to understand as his new position within the British government brought with it longer and longer days. The promotion had been an honorable one, and the salary was more than impressive, but before long he began to forget what a good night’s sleep felt like. He’d always been a heavy tea drinker, naturally, but when your twenty-hour day turned into a thirty-six hour day, one needed something considerably stronger than tea.

An addendum: Never underestimate the power of a GOOD cup of coffee. The office usually had something brewing, but Mycroft realized after a while that, in the realm of coffee, the stuff was watered down and didn’t pack enough of a punch. He decided that it was time to look for an outside source for the caffeinated beverage.

His assistant (yes, he had one of those now, it was unusual getting used to) mentioned a café a few blocks down that she frequented. A lot of people from their building tended to go there, in fact. One visit was all it took for him to decide never to go there again. It was all skim lattes with whipped cream, cocoa shavings, and double shots of espresso; frozen coffees blended with vanilla and strawberry. Seasonal drinks were served throughout the year as well, with even more bizarre twists and flavors. Their normal coffee was mediocre at best, not much better than what he could get in his workplace, and their prices were something to gawk at. Just because he had the money to spend, Mycroft didn’t feel the need to overpay for something so lackluster. So the search continued.

One day, as he decided to walk home after a particularly frustrating day dealing with Korea, his attention was drawn to a small bakery sitting on the corner. He couldn’t quite say what piqued his interest, but his eyebrows rose at the rather silly name of the place.

Lestrudle

If you were to ask, Mycroft couldn’t tell you what prompted him to visit the bakery that day. He was trying to diet – his younger brother had made one too many snarky remarks about his weight and he had grown rather weary of enduring them – so he really didn’t need to walk inside. Maybe it was the scent of freshly baked bread that drew his curiosity. Maybe it was the sign that indicated that coffee was also served. It was untelling. It didn’t really matter, however, because he went in all the same.

The place was empty save for the man moving around behind the counter, arranging display pastries and cakes. He glanced up and smiled in greeting. Mycroft nodded in return.

“What can I get for you?” he was asked. The man looked to be a few years his senior, and the sides of his dark brown hair were beginning to grey. He had warm brown eyes and a dusting of stubble on his face. He was startlingly handsome. Mycroft had to remind himself not to stare.

“Just a coffee, please. Black, no sugar.” Most of the time, Mycroft put sugar in his coffee. Today was not one of those days. Work had been utterly insane; he needed something strong and bitter.

“Alright, black coffee it is. That’ll be a pound, mate.”

Mycroft blinked.

“One pound?” he asked, making sure he’d heard correctly. Most places in the heart of London started at two or three pounds, and those were usually rather small cups.

“Yup, one pound,” the man laughed. He had a charming laugh.

Mycroft paid, and took a seat near the counter while he waited. Part of him regretted this decision. How good could a coffee that cheap really be? However, he was brought up with manners much too polite to decline now.

To say he was pleasantly surprised by the quality of coffee he soon had in his hands was an understatement. It had to be some of the best he’d ever had. He drank it with a smile, relaxing, and pointedly NOT watching his server out of the corner of his eye.

*

The man’s name was Greg Lestrade; Mycroft found this out on his second visit two days later. This immediately explained the bizarre name of the shoppe. The pun was clever, and it made him smile in appreciation. Greg was the owner of the bakery, inherited from his father when he had died the year before.

“The Lestrades are a long line of French chefs,” he had explained, leaning casually against the counter as Mycroft drank his coffee. “I’d wanted to go into law enforcement originally, but my da saw to it that I ended up following their footsteps and come here. I don’t regret it now.”

Greg was very personable. He was the complete opposite of Mycroft. He talked freely, and Mycroft found himself ACTUALLY listening. He was genuinely interested in what he had to say. It was shocking, because while he was excellent at pretending to care (a major requirement in his line of work) that’s usually all it was. Pretend.

Yet he sat there and drank his coffee while the other man talked. It may have had a little to do with how those warm eyes lit up when he talked about his passion, or how he ran his fingers through his slightly peppered hair.

But only a little bit.

*

After about a week, he started visiting Lestrudle for lunch breaks. The ones that he was able to get away from the office, that was. His assistant, Anthea, tagged along one day. She was curious about why Mycroft insisted on visiting a pastry shoppe without ever buying pastries.

There were a few patrons there when they arrived. Lunch seemed to be when the place was busiest. Upon entering, the bell above the door chimed and Greg looked up from where he was conversing with another patron. When those large eyes landed on him, he broke out in a beaming grin. Next to Mycroft, Anthea jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

“Ah. That explains it then,” she whispered, a sly grin on her face.

“That explains nothing,” he replied, tilting his chin up in the air, trying to force the blush out of his cheeks. The two of them had become close since they started working together, closer than Mycroft was with most, so of course Anthea would take such liberties to try and embarrass him.

Greg took Anthea’s order once they approached the counter, not bothering to get Mycroft’s – he ordered the same thing every time – and they found a seat.

“That is not a customer greeting smile,” Anthea said pointedly over her cinnamon roll. Good lord, she would not let it go. “He was genuinely excited to see you. He fancies you.”

Mycroft stared an invisible hole through his coffee, feeling the urge to blush again. It was ridiculous; he did not blush. That bright smile did make his stomach flutter, though, something else he definitely never did. Which is why he’d never admit it was happening now.

“He does not know me. He cannot fancy me, as you put it,” he denied vehemently. “It is a ridiculous notion to even consider.”

Anthea just smiled. It was infuriating.

*

It was rare that Mycroft ever got the opportunity to watch Greg work. Yet, one day, he’d told him about a big order he was working on for a child’s birthday. The man paused long enough to get Mycroft his coffee, and then he was back at it. There was no time for his usual idle chatter today.

Mycroft took his usual seat near the counter and started unabashedly at Greg as he drank his coffee. He was entranced by the way the other man worked. As he decorated a cake with rather colorful icing, his tongue poked out of the side of his mouth just enough to be noticed. The longer it remained out, the harder he seemed to be concentrating. It was endearing, and it brought an odd feeling to Mycroft.

His phone chimed with a text alert. He didn’t even hear it go off.

*

“Why don’t you ever try a pastry?” Greg asked him one afternoon as he handed Mycroft his drink. “I see you eyeing them all the time.”

“I’m on a diet,” he admitted stiffly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Greg gave him a look, and then grabbed a croissant and held it out.

“Here.”

Mycroft stared at it wearily. Greg huffed and held it out further for emphasis.

“If you magically gain ten pounds from eating this one little croissant, I’ll eat your umbrella.”

He sighed, but chuckled at the visual he’d just been given, and accepted it. He certainly didn’t want to be rude. Greg grinned triumphantly as he finished it.

“You don’t need such a strict diet, anyway,” he continued. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Greg glanced down at the counter for a moment, smiling that heart-melting smile. “You look just fine the way you are.”

*

“You should ask him out,” Anthea said one day out of the blue. The absurd remark made Mycroft look up from the meeting’s notes that he had been reading.

“Who?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“That ridiculously attractive bakery owner you go visit almost every day,” she explained with a pointed look. “You’ve been going there for, what, three months now?”

Mycroft frowned.

“Anthea, please. The coffee is good, and the price of it is unbeatable.”

“So you’re telling me it has absolutely nothing to do with the owner.”

“Of course not.”

She clearly didn’t believe him.

*

One day as Mycroft was handing over his pound, Greg shook his head and wouldn’t take it. He blinked in confusion.

“Gregory?” he asked, brow furrowed. The older man handed over the coffee and leaned on the counter.

“Well, you know how it’s customary for someone to ask someone else out for coffee when they’re interested in furthering their relationship?” Mycroft nodded, his heart beating loudly in his chest. Greg looked at him, his face unreadable. “Well, you already have coffee here all the time. This one’s on me.”

Mycroft sat down in his usual seat, trying to take in this information and figure out what he was saying. To further his surprise, Greg came out from behind the counter and sat next to him. He grabbed a napkin and pulled out a pen.

“If I might be so bold, I’d like to ask you out to dinner,” he said confidently as he wrote. Then, he slid the napkin across the table and Mycroft stared down at it. There was a phone number written on it. “Perhaps… Tomorrow night?”

Mycroft found himself nodding before he realized what was happening. Greg broke out into that ridiculously charming grin that seemed to be reserved for him alone, and heat quickly shot up into his face.

“I’d… like that,” he managed to get out. He reached out to take the napkin, and their fingers touched. Neither one of them pulled away.

“Wonderful. How about 8:00? We can meet here, if you’d like.”

Mycroft nodded again, and Greg’s smile widened excitedly. He moved his fingers, but only so they could caress Mycroft’s gently.

The shoppe bell rang, indicating a new customer walking in, so Greg had to pull away and take his place back behind the counter. Mycroft found himself alarmingly disappointed. Pocketing the napkin, he finished his coffee and left, momentarily glancing back over his shoulder. His and Greg’s eyes locked, and it made his stomach do cartwheels.

He was excited. He was nervous. He was in trouble. Somehow, he was falling for a man he hadn’t even gone out on a date with yet. But he had a date set up. And he felt like it was going to be the start of something amazing.


End file.
